


Rarely Pure & Never Simple

by orphan_account



Category: Greek and Roman Mythology
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:01:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	Rarely Pure & Never Simple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bucketmouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketmouse/gifts).



He woke in the night and rose from his bed. His robe lay nearby and he wrapped it around himself, ignoring the soft sounds of protest from the bed. A soft hand reached for him and he brushed it away; she was pregnant, her belly swelling ever so slightly, and it upset her when he left. That, at least, had come as a surprise to both of them. She had been brought to his bed as a spoil of war and though he took pleasure in her beauty, he had not expected to feel anything for her. There was a fondness there now, born of close contact and, perhaps, the child that she carried inside her.

Fondness, however, was not love, and he could not stay.

He made his way down the hall, bare feet slapping softly against the floor. He didn’t take a light with him. He didn’t need one. The way to Helenus’s room was well known to him, and the door was never locked. He tugged it open, slipped inside. The room was dark. From the bed came the sound of slow, deep breathing. He leaned back against the door and just listened, soothed by that rhythmic susurration, until his feet began to ache from the cold.

“Old man,” he said, voice harsh in the quiet of the room. There was a stirring from the bed and he clenched his hands into fists. “Wake up.”

He listened to the rustle of blankets, the soft sigh as Helenus dragged himself upright. There was a flare of light as Helenus lit the candle beside his bed and stared with weary eyes across the room. “Neoptolemus,” he murmured. It was invective and invitation. Neoptolemus accepted both and made his way across the room, dropping his robe on the floor.

He knelt by the side of the bed, closing his eyes and sighing softly as Helenus cupped his face with a big hand. It was shameful, going to his knees before a man he named slave, but that was why he did it. To be the son of a hero, to be a hero himself, was a heavy burden. Nothing could lessen that heaviness, but Helenus helped.

Rough fingers combed through his hair, gently separating out the knots, smoothing stray strands. He closed his eyes, shivering as Helenus’s hands moved from hair to skin, tracing the graceful line of his neck, brushing down his shoulders. His touch smoothed away tension, drew out all of the cares of the day and cast them aside. It was why he came back time and time again to push against those hands, to lie beneath the man that he had claimed as his own once the killing had finished.

“Come into the bed, then, boy,” Helenus sighed, cupping Neoptolemus’s face and drawing him up. He laid indulgent kisses on the young man’s face, following them with his fingertips to touch and retouch as he pressed his master onto his back. Neoptolemus went willingly, closing his eyes against the flickering of the candle and sending all of his focus into the tender fall of Helenus’s hands along his naked body. Chest, belly, hips, thighs; Helenus caressed each in turn, bending until his forehead pressed against Neoptolemus’s abdomen. His nostrils flared and a shiver ran up his spine as he scented the boy’s skin, so fresh, so eager. His tongue flicked out, tasting, and a tremulous moan greeted this newest touch.

“Shh,” he said, laughing against a tight belly. Neoptolemus shifted beneath his hands, the impatience of youth. He bit gently and the boy hissed.

“Don’t tease me,” he demanded. His leg rose, hooked across Helenus’s hips. It was delightfully unsubtle, just one of the things that Helenus had grown to love about this strange, dark boy. He moved up, covering Neoptolemus with his own body, circling the boy’s wrists with his hands. Neoptolemus was strong and fine, but he never fought to break Helenus’s grip. His legs spread as easily as a well-practiced whore, and Helenus buried his face in the boy’s neck as he rolled his hips down, relishing the lean body beneath him.

There was oil on the table and Helenus used it, coating his fingers, pressing them roughly into Neoptolemus. He moaned, clawing at Helenus’s arms, gasping at each thrust, each curve of the thick fingers inside him. They moved together, straining against each other, until Neoptolemus gripped the back of Helenus’s neck and pulled him down. “Please,” he rasped.

That was all it took.

Helenus pushed in even as Neoptolemus pulled him in with his legs and the two came together with a simultaneous cry of pain and pleasure. It was a dance of mutual need and desire, give and take. Hands grasped, teeth clamped over tender flesh, leaving bruises that would linger for days. They both left their encounters the same way, marked inside and out, but in the heat of their passion, nothing mattered but the connection. They fed off of each other in this way, clinging and thrusting, whispering one another’s names, breathing protestations of adoration that would go unsaid until they were together again like this, spoken only in their eyes, in the faint brush of a hand or a closeness when there were no others to see. It was a known fact that there was something between them, but none but the two of them knew how deep it went.

Neoptolemus finished first, his cry muffled by Helenus’s palm. He continued to thrust, shuddering as the boy’s sweet body clenched around him, drawing him deeper, holding him tighter, until he, too, reached his climax and fell in a sweat-drenched heap on top of Neoptolemus. “My boy,” he murmured, stroking a shivering flank. “Shh, it’s all right.”

Gradually, Neoptolemus calmed, his breathing growing even, and Helenus shifted to the side, drawing him close and kissing his smooth forehead. “Sweet boy,” he sighed. “You do tax me.” Usually, this drew laughter, a gentle jeer, a sweetness. Tonight, Neoptolemus pressed tighter against his side and sighed softly.

“I feel strange lately,” he said. “As though there is something hanging over me. Tell me true, Helenus, do I worry over nothing?”

And Helenus, who had his sister’s gift of prophecy and who had always been believed, knew to what Neoptolemus referred. Death, on black wings, coming for the shining boy at his side. Too soon. Far, far too soon. To deny his gift, to lie when asked a question, went against all he believed. He should tell Neoptolemus, prepare the boy to meet his end. It was the right thing to do. But right did not always mean good and, knowing how little time they had left, he smoothed Neoptolemus’s hair and pitched his voice low and lied.

“Yes, my love. You worry over nothing.”


End file.
